


Sincerely, Slade Wilson

by PBWritesStuff



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: I need a capping chapter, Just ignore this it's half finished, M/M, also let's play how much can I project onto Dick until I BECOME the birb guy???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 19:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18212582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBWritesStuff/pseuds/PBWritesStuff
Summary: Slade told himself he wasn't getting attached, especially not to Dick Grayson, and yet... Here he was, meddling in his affairs for no other reason than sympathy. Ugh. He shouldn't be so susceptible to a pretty face and deep blue eyes.





	Sincerely, Slade Wilson

"I think... I want to die." Dick said, as he absently traced the contours of the bruises on his wrist.

 

"Oh. And why is that?" Slade replied, as he stood in the nearby kitchenette, scrambling eggs. He didn't really think the other man was serious, but like so many of Dick's whims, the mercenary decided to humor him.

 

"I just... Do you ever feel, like everything you touch turns to ashes?" Dick asked, and the older man swallowed hard. He thought about his sons, dead, and his daughter who hated him. He thought about Terra, whose death and misery lay solely on his shoulders, and every choice he made that led up to that.

 

"No." Slade lied.

 

"You fucking liar." Dick countered, laughing in a hollow way that wasn't like him. He knew Slade better than that, and the mercenary had to remind himself that Dick was BETTER, that HE was better for learning from his past mistakes.

 

"I feel like that, sometimes." Grayson whispered, then. "I feel like everyone I get close to is dead, or hates me, and you only survive because you hate me enough already that it doesn't count."

 

"I don't hate you." Slade murmured, but in a way, he sort of did. He hated that he could never hold the same place in Dick's heart as his first love, and that for all his experience, Deathstroke was only an infatuation, a passing phase, a not-quite-friend with benefits.

 

"You do. You do hate me." Dick insisted, and Slade was burning the eggs because he kept gazing at the young man who sprawled over his couch, the young man who was too young for him (the kid who was younger than Grant and only scarcely older than Joey), and it said something that Nightwing was twenty-eight now, and still practically a child compared to all that Slade had seen and experienced.

 

"I don't hate you Dick." Slade muttered now, his temper flaring. "I hate how fixated you are on the Bat."

 

"I love him." Grayson replied, earnestly, and Slade knew it was true. Bruce was his first love, more of a friend than a father, because when they first met, he was practically a child who'd adopted a child, a newcomer in the world of crime fighting, and all too eager to drag his ward into combat.

 

"Then  _why_  are you here, Dick?" Deathstroke asked, more concerned now, and he turned off the stove before he set off the fire alarm (the eggs were smoking, burned beyond edibility now, because more important things were happening, more  _confusing_  things to take up his thoughts).

 

"As long as I don't have a contract on my head, I trust you." Dick replied, but his voice cracked on the next sentence. "You don't handle me like I'm made of glass. You can fuck me without looking... Guilty."

 

As Nightwing carefully fondled the finger-print bruises on his wrist with a faint smile, Slade felt pretty damn guilty after all. Marks would fade, and Dick even seemed proud of them, relishing each bruise and hickey in cold morning daylight. But mental scars were not given to fading, and Wilson wondered how Dick had gotten  _those_  particular mental issues.

 

"Have you ever... Tried? Just gone up and asked?" Slade offered, halfheartedly, more out of a desire to understand Nightwing than a suggestion to return to Wayne, who could rot in hell for all Slade Wilson cared.

 

"I seduced him once." Dick sniffed, and looked faintly like he was going to be sick. "It was wonderful. Bruce was gentle hands and slow strokes, and he pressed me up against the hood of his car."

 

"Sounds perfect." Slade resisted the urge to roll his good eye.

 

"Pfft. Sort of." Dick let out an exasperated sigh, and Slade sat beside him on the couch. Grayson lay back, and put his head on his lover's thigh. "Afterward, Bruce was so guilty, he couldn't even look me in the damn  _eyes_. It was right after I got back from college, and for years, I thought I'd done something wrong."

 

"Well that explains why you're such an attention whore." Wilson deadpanned, and carded his fingers through the dark, dark hair. "You want validation, someone to tell you you're not broken, and Wayne is never going to give you that, birdy."

 

"I'm  _not_  broken." Dick insisted, even though he knew Slade was right. They knew each other too well to lie.

 

"Oh, no. You're  _all_  kinds of fucked up, pretty bird." Deathstroke murmured, and meant it. That experience had seriously damaged Dick, and it made his blood boil. One of the biggest issues with consensual incest, in Slade's opinion, was the fact that if you got rebuffed by a stranger, shamefully rejected without a word, as Dick had, you lost nothing but a possible boyfriend. In this case, with a ward and mentor, Nightwing lost his bond with the one man he trusted unquestionably. They might not have been related by blood, but Bruce was Dick's rock and anchor (no matter how much Slade secretly wished it was him, and not the billionaire with a different girl on his arm for every gala and event). It wasn't fair for Bruce to do this to  _his own son_  for Christ's sake.

 

"It's not fair." Dick whispered, and closed his eyes to choke back a sob.

 

"I know." Slade replied bitterly, still petting the younger man's soft hair. "It isn't fair. But life isn't fair either is it?"

 

(If life was  _fair_ , he wouldn't have had to kill  _his own son_ )

 

"I want him, Slade. I want him so badly it hurts." Grayson choked out, and the older man had to still his hand before he gripped something with his augmented strength, and broke it.

 

"I know." Slade bit out, through clenched teeth, and some part of Dick liked this, enjoyed driving Deathstroke up the wall like a jealous kid. Slade was bruises and rope burn, teeth hovered over a pale throat, hands wrapped around his cock and his windpipe. He came here when he wanted that, the kind of sex that Jason and Kori and Babs, and even Roy couldn't offer him, because they were too damn kind to help him dull the ache, and the mercenary had no such qualms.

 

In Dick's mind, in his  _heart_ , the pain of bites and faint marks, and even the scars from Arkham's finest, were barely enough to dull the pain in his stomach at losing Bruce, and losing him again everytime the man betrayed him.

 

"I'm drowning." Dick whispered, even though he wasn't underwater, and god, he was beautiful. The young man was clad only in shorts, and Slade allowed his eyes to wander, from that beautiful throat, to the plane of his abdomen, and the lean, athletic form.

 

"I would kill him for you." Slade offered, but he knew it wouldn't dull the pain.

 

"I would never ask you to."

 

"I know." Deathstroke sighed, and he dug something out of his pocket while the other man was distracted by the sensation of soothing strokes on his scalp. "You love him the most, more than anyone. You always have."

 

"I always have." Dick repeated, nodding, closing his eyes, as Slade prepared the needle.

 

"I'm sorry, pretty bird." Wilson muttered, as the tranquilizer sank in, and Dick only jerked momentarily, before slumping back against Slade.

 

"It's time to go home." Deathstroke whispered, even though Dick couldn't hear him.

 

Later that day, Bruce Wayne received a mysterious package in the form of his first ward. Dick, who was sleeping peacefully (wearing an oversized sweatshirt over his shorts) came with an attached letter.

 

"Dear spoiled, contemptuous, rich boy,

 

I brought your bird back, and you better be grateful, because I almost skipped town and took him with me. I know you think I'm taking advantage of him, and maybe I am, but Dick wouldn't come running into my arms if you didn't break his heart again. Don't fuck up this time, or I'm taking him for his own good.

 

Sincerely, Slade Wilson."


End file.
